The Baker Street Compendium
by LyricalSinger
Summary: Here you will find all my drabbles/221Bs and other short glimpses into the lives of Sherlock, John and the rest. Chapter 8 - Breathe. Everyone needs a little help sometimes.
1. Cliché

Everything was going well, until about four minutes after the Detective and the Doctor had walked onto the crime scene to consult with Lestrade and, as Sherlock had put it, "solve the case before the idiots took over".

Greg had called with what sounded like a solid "8" on Sherlock's Scale of Crimes: a windowless room locked from the inside, a missing early Picasso and, best of all, a body!

The Detective curtly gestured for the D.I. and the Doctor to wait in the doorway while he carefully examined both the body and the room. The body, the ex-Mrs. Griggs-Barton, showed no signs of violence and the room was pristine, except for the open door of a now-empty wall safe.

Suddenly Sherlock threw his hands the air and a string of invective issued from his mouth, shocking both John and Greg into silence. The language Sherlock was using was enough to make the proverbial stevedore blush!

"Sherlock! What's wrong?" asked John as he entered the room and slowly approached the agitated Detective who was now shaking his head and muttering, "No, no, no, no!"

At John's hand on his arm, Sherlock quieted, looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

"I'm can't believe I'm going to say this," he said in an aggrieved tone, "but it was the butler!"


	2. Ooh You Bastard

Ooh You Bastard

Lestrade walked further into the darkness of the car park, patting his pockets searching for his cigarettes. It had been one of "those" days … the kind of day where he missed Sherlock desperately. While thrilled that the Consulting Detective's name had finally been cleared, it hadn't happened soon enough.

Even though two years had passed, Greg still thought of the Detective every day. But today, this case, this was one of the tricky ones that Sherlock thrived on. Lestrade and his team had been banging their heads over the Waters gang for a while now. It was almost as if they were psychic; they always seemed to know when NSY would arrive and cleared out seconds before. It was frustrating and annoying and it was making Greg pull what little hair he had left on his head.

While he wasn't one for 'if only's', Greg was thinking: 'if only I'd come down harder on Donovan and Anderson'; 'if only I'd paid more attention'; 'if only I'd dug a little deeper' … 'if only I'd been like John and believed'.

As he placed a cigarette to his lips, a clang sounded from the darkness. Seeing nothing, Greg flicked his lighter and a voice from the past washed over him.

Shocked, all Greg could say was, "Ooh, you bastard".


	3. The End of the Case

It had been a week from Hell as far as John was concerned, although Sherlock was in his element.

Lestrade was at a crime scene where there appeared to be three bodies. More precisely, there were _three left feet_ at the scene; nothing else. Realizing they'd need Sherlock's help with this one, Lestrade pulled out his phone and placed the call.

"_Appears_ to be three bodies? What, Anderson can't count?" snipped Sherlock as he tossed John's jacket towards him and grabbed his own coat before thundering down the stairs and out the front door.

"Just get over here and you'll see what I'm talking about," answered Lestrade before hanging up.

And that's how "The Three Feet Adventure" began. John and Sherlock had spent the week running between the crime scene, Bart's labs, the morgue and an abandoned plastics factory before ending up at a squalid little flat where, after a rooftop chase, they captured the killer.

It was an adventure for the ages, but it had left both Sherlock and John looking a little ragged around the edges. Exhausted, John watched his friend climb the seventeen steps to their flat. The Doctor figured he could enjoy at least two days of calm before Hurricane Sherlock struck again.

Then the three words John hated most floated down from above: "John, I'm bored."

* * *

A/N: Once again, thanks to my wonderful beta, sarajm.


	4. Chess

The two men were sitting in their chairs, a chess game on the small table between them.

John was relaxing in his chair, watching his friend with amusement. Taking a sip of tea from the mug in his hand, John looked out the window, glanced at Sherlock, eyed the skull on the mantle, looked back at Sherlock and sighed. They'd been like this for almost ten minutes.

Sherlock was hunched over the board, his hand hovering over his bishop ready to make his move. But instead he pulled his hand back, still studying the board intently. Sherlock frowned, and then, taking off his new glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose and ran his hand up through his curls, mussing them even more. Putting his glasses back on, he returned to his examination of the chess board.

Thirty minutes later, with a "Ha!" Sherlock finally made his move.

In response, John reached across the board and shifted one his rooks. "Checkmate."

Sherlock stared from the board to his friend, in shock. Sherlock _never_ lost at chess, yet he'd just lost! To _John_!

On seeing the smirk now gracing John's face, Sherlock let out a growl, stood and stalked towards the kitchen.

Laughing at his friend's reaction, John called out, "Next time, let's just play a nice, simple game of backgammon!"


	5. Mae West

Mae West

John stumbled and then tripped twice as he navigated the stairway to the flat. He wasn't drunk _per se_, just … _happy_. Murray's stag had been a rousing success and it had been great to reconnect with some of his army buddies. Best of all, the cute barrister at the next table had given him her number.

Sherlock was in the kitchen, staring in the fridge trying to decide whether to start his experiment on the hearts he'd stashed behind the milk when he heard John lurching up the stairs.

Deducing that his friend had consumed at least four pints and no food, Sherlock flicked on the kettle, filled a glass with water and grabbed a couple of pieces of fruit from the bowl Mrs. Hudson had optimistically placed on the table.

By the time John made it up the stairs, Sherlock was standing in the doorway with the glass of water in one hand, the bottle of paracetamol in the other and trouser pockets distended with fruit.

On seeing his friend, John giggled, pointed at Sherlock's pocket and drawled, "Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"

Handing over the water and pills, Sherlock frowned at his friend with bemusement. "Why would I have a gun in my pocket? Here, eat this banana."

* * *

A/N #1: My apologies for the utter silliness of this, but it had to be done (and yes, it is a 221B once you remove my A/Ns).

A/N #2: In case you can't decipher the title to this chapter, John's quote at the end is attributed to Mae West and is from the film _She Done Him Wrong_. And yes, he does get the quote wrong!


	6. The Colours of My Life

The Colours of my Life

A/N: The title is taken from the song "The Colours of My Life", from the musical "Barnum".

* * *

The Army Doctor, _ex-Army Doctor_ he thought to himself bitterly, sat on the edge of the single bed in the tiny bedsit in the middle of one of the least attractive areas of London and stared blankly at the wall in front of him. He'd been awake since 3:27, jolted out of sleep, albeit a very restless sleep, by the sounds and sights of Afghanistan.

John Watson was no fool. He knew that he'd never forget the fears and the occasional joys that were part of his past. Lord knew he'd never forget the pain; that was the one thing he'd brought home from Afghanistan that he wished he'd been able to leave behind.

Pain was a constant in John Watson's life; the physical pain of wounds, the emotional pain of deaths of friends and comrades. But as he looked around his room, John realized that he'd brought home something else from Afghanistan.

He'd brought home dullness. It seemed that everything in his life was dull in comparison to the brightness of his previous existence. The walls of his room were a sickly-looking taupe, the bedspread was an odd shade of sand; even his clothes were bland.

As he looked around the room, the Doctor wondered if, from now on, the colours of his life would be varying shades of beige.


	7. The Colours of My Life (Part 2)

The Colours of My Life, Part 2

A/N: The inspiration for this came from codename penguin's review of Part 1. Thanks codename penguin!

* * *

Amazing, mused the ex-Army Doctor, the difference thirty-six hours could make. In that short period of time he'd reconnected with an old friend, met an incredible, insane, _brilliant_ Consulting Detective, raced through the back alleys and over the rooftops of London, been propositioned by said Detective's overbearing brother, and been witness to a drugs bust. And let's not forget that he'd killed a man because, though he'd only known Sherlock Holmes for about twenty-four hours, it was obvious even to John that the Detective had no sense of self-preservation!

It had been an overwhelming, absolutely _amazing_ thirty-six hours and John had not felt so alive in months. Even his limp had disappeared, thanks to the machinations of his new … could he be called a 'friend' after such a short time? _Yes_, thought John, _definitely a friend_.

As John packed his few belongings into his old kit bag and a couple of boxes, he looked around the bedsit that had been his home since his release from hospital. It was absolutely the most depressing flat he'd ever seen; a complete contrast to the companionship and adventure that was 221B Baker Street.

As he closed the flap on the last box, John let out a laugh of absolute joy. From now on, he realized, his life could no longer be considered "beige".


	8. Breathe

The pain was so intense, it grabbed every last molecule of air from his lungs and flung it far away. As he lay there on the path alone, gasping for air, with black spots beginning to form at the edge of his vision, he thought to himself, "Is this it?"

With his vision fading and the pain ebbing through his body like waves on the shore, he found that his hearing was heightened. Over the sound of London's ever-present yet ever-changing rumblings, he was surprised to hear bird song. One lonely bird was chirping in the tree nearby. He could hear the rustle of leaves as the gentle breeze wafted through the trees. He could hear the click of heels as people walked by the park where he lay desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.

And the smells! Here was the sharp tang of newly-mown grass and the dank, musty aroma of leaf mould. And … was that the scent of roses?

Resigned to his fate, his sight now narrowed to a pinpoint of light, he suddenly heard the pounding of feet heading in his direction. A voice yelled, "He's here. Get an ambulance! Now!"

He felt the sudden warmth of hands on his shoulders and heard John whisper in his ear, "I've got you Greg. Now just breathe!"


End file.
